


Old Timers

by LunaRS



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ghosts, Humor, Hunting, Old!Sam, Oneshot, Zombies, old!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaRS/pseuds/LunaRS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean have been hunting for a loooong time...but what would it be like to take a look in their lives approximately forty-two years into the future? <br/>Please comment!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Timers

‘Born to be wild!’ 

The song played loudly on the radio, making the already loud purr of the Impala’s engine almost inaudible.  
“Turn it down!” Sam’s haggard voice could barely be heard over the oppressing music.  
“What?” Dean shouted back in confusion. Sam slapped the radio’s power button and the music halted abruptly.  
“What was that for?” Dean asked in irritated confusion.  
“Too loud,” Sam replied, moving a very long strand of white hair out of his face.  
“Old geezer,” Dean mumbled under his breath.  
“Shut up,” Sam snapped.

Not too long after, they reached a motel and bought a room for the night. After toiling over and dragging their heavily laden duffle bag up to the room, they panted and set the bag down.  
“Did ya have to pack every flippin’ weapon we have?” Dean complained.  
“There’re only a few rifles in there, stop whining,” Sam replied as he stretched.  
There was a knock on the door.

Dean, as stealthily as he was able, waddled to the door and looked through the peek hole only to find a maid and her moving tray of cleaning tools.

Dean opened the door and grinned; she was young, and cute.  
“Hey there,” Dean flirted. Sam rolled his eyes and walked off.  
The young woman smiled.  
“Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?”  
“Awww, you’re adorable!” she cooed as she handed him a few clean towels. Dean, begrudgingly, thanked her for the towels and closed the door.  
“Why do they always do that? I was serious!” Dean questioned Sam, looking bummed and confused as he set the towels down and sat on one of the beds.  
“Because you’re seventy-six,” Sam answered bluntly from the bathroom. Yes, indeed Dean Winchester was seventy-six years old, and Sam was seventy-one. For forty-one years, or thereabouts, they had been hunting and saving the world, and since they had not yet been killed, by some miracle, they had decided to keep on the “family business” until they finally did meet their demise.   
“Through rain or shine or wrinkly skin,” Dean’s motto was.

“But it’s not like I’ve lost my touch…” Dean pouted.  
“Dude, if you hands can’t stop shaking long enough to shoot straight, then I’m pretty sure you’ve lost your touch.”  
“Yeah, whatever. So what’s the deal with this factory ghost?” Dean changed the subject.  
“Hannah Watson, who worked there, was raped by her boss and she killed herself after offing him,” Sam explained, slowly making his way to his bed.

“So...what’s she ganking people for if she already killed her boss?” Dean was confused.  
"Turns out a couple of employees walked in on him and were told that if they wanted to keep their jobs, they weren't supposed to tell the police...looks like they picked their jobs over reporting their boss," Sam explained.  
"Okay. Let's burn the bones later tonight. I'm exhausted," Dean yawned.  
"Dean, it's only four in the afternoon," Sam said.  
"Yeah, so?" Dean grumped as he walked to the side of his bed. "I've been driving for ten hours straight. I'm tired."   
Sam shrugged and jerked his head back slightly to get his silky white hair out of his face; in forty-two years, Sam hadn't done much with that luscious hair of his except maybe trim it from time to time. Now, his hair had grown to where it just barely brushed against his rear.  
Dean, except for its gray color, more or less still retained his same hairstyle: short and kinda spikey; also Dean, in his love for pie and bacon burgers, had grown a little chubbier in his old age.  
Dean slid under the covers and was asleep almost as soon as his head fell onto his pillow. Sam slowly began the task-as soon as he saw that Dean was asleep-of braiding his long white locks behind him, after which he, too, retired.

\--------

Dean shoveled diligently, every shovel-ful of dirt causing his muscles to ache and complaints to rattle off his dry tongue in his discomfort.   
It was 3 'o clock in the morning.  
"Sammy, it's your turn," Dean stated, wiping the beads of sweat off his brow.  
“Fine,” Sam said and carefully slipped into the grave hole as Dean scrambled out with great effort, kicking a portion of the dirt back into the hole.  
“Dean!” Sam hissed. Dean looked down and shrugged at what he’d just done. “Just dig,” he waved his little brother off.   
Sam angrily did as he was told and "accidentally" flung some dirt at his older brother who was standing behind him, letting out a sort of strained chuckle/cackle when Dean shouted annoyedly at him for it.  
The shovel soon--well, if thirty minutes is soon--hit the top of the coffin and the Winchesters pulled off the lid.  
Dean helped Sam crawl out of the hole and lit his ancient lighter, dropping it on the bones after Sam drenched them in salt and gasoline.  
As the bones went up in flames, Sam heard a husky growl behind them, but before he could turn around, he felt something tug hard on his long hair.   
"Aaaaaaah!" he exclaimed in his surprise. "Dean!"   
"Sorry, Sammy! Zombie!" Dean replied quickly as he pulled out his silver bullet-laden pistol. Sammy turned his head and saw that Dean had begun to strangle the zombie with his white long hair wrapped around its neck.

"Please...kill...me!" The zombie choked.   
"Who rose you?" Dean questioned, holding the shaking gun at the zombie's head.  
"Hannah...W-Watson..."   
A shot went off and Sam fell backwards with a muffled cry of surprise as the zombie fell and dragged the hunter with it.  
"Poor bastard," Dean muttered, tucking his gun away and untangling Sam's hair from the zombie's throat.  
"What the Hell, Dean?" Sam angrily hissed, standing speedily in his discontentment.  
"Well, looks like we finally put that long hair of yours to good use!" Dean laughed, patting his angry brother's shoulder.  
"Anyhow, looks like Hannah's holding onto something other than her bones. Let's look around the factory," he said, walking off towards the Impala. 

\--------

Dean waddled about bowleggedly, his rifle trembling involuntarily in his arms. Sam took long strides on bony legs and managed to hold his weapon still in his skeletal hands; his neck was bent forward a bit and his shoulders hunched slightly forward, causing some of his wispy white locks to sway in front of his face. He'd have to flick the hair out of his face every so often.  
The Winchesters searched every room, every nook and cranny of the old, abandoned, and extremely creepy factory where the ghost was sure to be waiting for them.

They didn't know exactly what they were looking for but they did know that they were looking for something of some importance to the ghost.  
Finally they made their way into the main office, where they assumed the rape must have taken place. Sam turned to close the door and was met by the very angry ghost of Hannah Watson, looking filthy and full of resentment and sorrow.  
"Crap!" Sam exclaimed, raising his arms too quickly and ended up locking his joints. "Gaaaaaaaa! Dean!"   
Dean whipped around and shot an un-aimed round of rock salt at the ghost, just barely hitting it, and missing Sam; it made her screech and dissipate.  
"I think we're in the right room," Dean commented. Sam rubbed his aching joints and warily scoped the room.   
After a couple of moments of looking around, Sam found a ring. Engraved into the ring was "Watson". It was definitely her ring.  
"Dean, hand me your lighter." Sam said, hold his wrinkled hand out. Dean felt around in his pockets for his lighter.  
"Damnit! I left it in the graveyard!" Dean cursed in his gruff and haggard voice.  
"What?!" Sam said in disbelief. Just then the ghost appeared again and Dean rose his shaking gun and fired a shot, missing her by a few inches.  
She vanished, then appeared in front of Sam.  
"Dean!" Sam shouted, looking frantically through the drawers for matches.   
"I'm comin', Sam!" Dean bellowed, waddling frantically towards the ghost of Hannah Watson and shooting another round at her, missing again as the rifle in his hands trembled violently. "Aaaaaaaarg! Damnit!"  
"Stop shaking!" Sam commanded, irritated and rushed. He found a box of old matches and hurriedly began to try and light one. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!" Sam mumbled. More shots went off and some of the rock salt rounds actually hit the ghost before she could touch Sam.  
Finally the ring was engulfed in flames and the ghost shrieked and gave the Winchesters a final devastated look before she too was destroyed by the flames.  
Sam and Dean looked at each other, panting. "Good work," Dean said and patted Sam's arm.  
"Yeah..." Sam's voice trailed off.  
Their bodies ached, their minds grew hazier everyday, but the had once again saved some people, hunted a monster, and continued on with the family business.  
And so Sam and Dean waddled off to save the world once again, one ghost at a time.


End file.
